


What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?

by wereallalittlebit



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: American Harry, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Eventual Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Home for Christmas, I wonder what will happen, M/M, Miscommunication, New Year's Eve, Pining, Poor Louis, Rich Harry, Sharing a Bed, doncaster, there's only one bed, working class Louis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-25 08:52:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17118227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wereallalittlebit/pseuds/wereallalittlebit
Summary: Inspired by the drone chaos at Gatwick causing a flight from New York to end up being diverted to Doncaster - how could I not?! I've taken a little artistic license with it but the concept remains.Rich American lawyer Harry is saved by working-class delivery rider Louis in a hotel bar in Doncaster when his flight gets diverted and all of the hotels in Donny are fully booked.Featuring: Louis' single bed, Harry's "special someone" who he desperately needs to get home to see for the holidays, a whole lot of house plants, mince pies and pining and an eventual dose of tooth rotting fluff and smut.This fic is dedicated to the We're Only Here for Lou group chat - you girls light up my world like nobody else. I love you all and you honestly saved me. Never change.~Title inspired by Kacey Musgraves' cover of What Are Your Doing New Year's Eve because A Very Kacey Christmas is the only Christmas music I will accept this year~





	1. Saturday December 22nd

**Author's Note:**

> If you're an Oi Oi reader and wondering a)when it's getting updated and b)if this fic will also have you weeping into your pillows let me assure you that a)soon! and b)no it won't. I'm gifting you something more gentle for Christmas. Aren't I lovely?

“Fucking hell, just stay at mine if you’re gonna be that much of a prick” Louis mutters the words under his breath between sips of his pint at the hotel bar, and apparently the tall and somewhat disgruntled American stranger next to him has heard every single one of them. 

 

“I am not a prick, I’m just stuck in the middle of nowhere, and there’s no fucking hotels and I really,  _ really _ need to get back home for Christmas. So you’ll excuse me if I’m not my politest, most charming self but I thought I’d be half way back to New York by now, not stuck in...Duncastor or wherever the hell this is. But look, if you’re offering, I will absolutely take you up on that offer. I’ve tried every hotel in town and they’re all fully booked. I’ll pay you, obviously. ” The hotel receptionist, who had been on the other end of quite an angry exchange with the man mere moments before starts shooting Louis pleading looks, silently begging him to make this problem disappear. 

 

The only reason Louis is in the hotel in the first place is because his friends worked here; the receptionist shooting Louis his best fluttery eyelashed plea is Zayn, who Louis has known since the first day of secondary school and just behind him is their friend Niall, who works behind the bar and will occasionally pull Louis a free half pint when no-one else is around. The three of them spend most of their time together, along with Zayn’s flatmate Liam, who is in the middle of training to be a fireman (hose jokes are plentiful on Friday nights after they’ve all had a few too many). Louis is skint and honestly, anything is better than sitting around in his shitty, freezing little flat, so he comes to the hotel, keeps Zayn and Niall company, enjoys the occasional free drink or leftover bit of food from the fancy functions they run and apparently, offers his bed to complete strangers. He could do with the cash though, so really it is a no brainier. A couple of nights in the living room won’t kill him and it will mean that he’ll actually be able to buy his sisters some proper Christmas presents this year. He’d been planning on making them a little cheque book of vouchers - stuff like “Coffee out at Costa” and “a trip to the Donny dome”, just little things so he can spread the cost out across the year. But having someone want to pay him to sleep on his lumpy single bed will mean he can actually get each of them something little to unwrap and maybe one of the nice fake Jo Malone candles this his mum likes from the supermarket too. It’ll be nice to surprise them for once; he hates how much of a disappointment he’s felt since he lost his job over the summer. He used to run youth groups and after school clubs at a local charity and he’d loved it, but the funding had been cut and they just couldn’t afford to keep him any more. Now he just works occasional shifts delivering takeaways on his bike but it doesn’t pay much and it’s pretty shit compared to what he used to do and honestly, Louis is miserable about it all. He’s been trying to work out if he’s going to need to move back home in the new year, which will mean sleeping on the sofa bed in the living room and being woken up at the crack of dawn when his mum gets back from the night shift, but at least it might give him a bit of extra money to be able to doing things with. He might even be able to save enough to go on holiday next summer if he does that.

 

Anyway, no point thinking about that when there’s a tall and beautiful (Louis might be miserable, but he has eyes  _ okay _ ?!) curly haired stranger staring at him with the most intense green eyes Louis thinks he’s ever seen. 

 

“Ummm, yeah alright then. But just so you know, my flat isn’t fancy or anything. This is Doncaster, not LA or wherever you’re from.” Louis bites his thumb nail as he finishes speaking, avoiding the stranger’s intense gaze.

 

“New York,” Louis feels like he can hear the twang in the strangers voice that he knows from the movies now that he knows, “And thank you. I’m sure your apartment is lovely. You must be my guardian angel.” 

 

Louis snorts at the idea, and hears the echoing cackles of his two best friends from the other end of the bar (they’d both made a hasty retreat once Louis had agreed, clearly desperate to avoid being shouted at again). Louis is many things - sarcastic as hell, a bit of fuck up, really bloody short, Northern and proud, gay and a little bit less proud, skint, a proper mother’s boy - but an angel he is not. He’s grumpy and clumsy and probably a little bit depressed if he’s honest with himself. And the only reason he’s even agreeing to this is because of the money, which he’s pretty certain is not how angels are meant to work.

 

“Nah, definitely not an angel. Just skint. And I wanted to save my friends from being shouted at because you might not think you are, but you were definitely being a prick just then.”

 

The stranger lets out a long sigh and scrubs a hand across his face “Urgh, you’re right. I promise I’m not normally like this, it’s just that I’m supposed to be flying home for Christmas. I’ve got someone...really special that I need to get home for and apparently there’s some drone or something and nothing is allowed to fly out so we got diverted and now I’m stranded here. Do you think I can make it up to your friends? Is there a department store around here? I can go buy them something nice to say sorry. Whisky? Chocolates? Wine? Do you guys have a Harrods up here?”

 

Louis really wishes he’d not taken a sip of his drink just now, as he promptly spits it out all over himself at the prospect of a fucking  _ Harrods _ in the middle of Doncaster. The beer burns the inside of his nose and the front of his t shirt is soaked through. He silently prays that it doesn’t stain because this t shirt is new, an early birthday present from his mum, and he knows it cost a bit more than he’d normally let her spend on him but she insisted that because it’s his 30th in a couple of days he had to let her spoil him a bit. He’d made her promise to keep all the receipts for the rest of the presents she’s bought him, just in case she ends up needing the money towards the end of January. He’d much rather take back his birthday presents than have her worrying about the ‘leccy getting cut off or something.

 

“Oh my god,” Louis is trying his best to compose himself but he’s still laughing so hard it’s making his whole body shake, “No, there’s no Harrods in Donny love. Don’t worry about them, they’ll be fine. Let’s just get out of their hair and I can take you to my flat and get your settled in. Do you ummm want me to help carrying your bags or owt?” Louis stands up and tries not to think about how much shorter he is than this stranger who he’s about to take home or about how bedraggled he looks next to him; even in a fancy t shirt and his nicest trackie bottoms, he still doesn’t look anywhere near as pretty or beautiful as the American does, all lines and angles in a well-cut suit. 

 

“No, I’ll be fine, thank you though. Shall I call us a cab or..?” 

 

“Oh, no need for that. I’m just around the corner so we can walk it.” Louis starts towards the door and then pauses to turn back to the man following him, “I’m Louis by the way. Louis Tomlinson. Should probably tell you that before you come into my house. And you are…?”

 

“Harry Styles. An absolute pleasure to meet you and truly, you’re an angel, no matter what you may believe.”

 

~~~~

 

Louis’ flat is directly above a kebab shop on the High Street. It’s pretty small but at least it’s not a bedsit - he has his own bathroom, his own kitchen, his own living room and even a small cupboard in the hallway. He doesn’t have double glazing and doesn’t have proper central heating, just little electric storage heaters that seem to have a bit of a mind of their own. There is hot water, technically speaking, but his boiler is a bit temperamental so sometimes the shower goes cold halfway through or if someone turns on the hot tap in the kitchen, turns off completely. There’s a little patch of damp just underneath the window in his bedroom that his landlord has been promising to fix for months now, but Louis has artfully hidden it with a few drapey plants and some paintings Zayn had done for him a couple of Christmases ago. He really loves his plants and has grown most of them from seed using soil from his mum’s back garden and some old yoghurt pots. He thinks they make the place feel more homely and cheerful and it’s a good to still have  _ something _ to take care of, even if it’s not quite the same as when he was looking after the kids in his old job. He does better when he can think about something or someone other than himself. He’s even managed to remember to put Christmas decorations up this year; a mix of cheap tinsel from the supermarket and homemade decorations from his siblings adorning his little plastic tree.

 

He knows that it’s not the nicest of places, but most of the time he thinks he’s done a really good job of making it look quite fancy, all things considered. Of course, that’s how he usually feels when it’s just him and his mates. Right now though, with this impeccably dressed and almost definitely rich-as-fuck man standing in his doorway, he’s just wondering why on earth he thought this was a good idea and is frantically trying to come up with excuses for why everything looks so….shit.

 

“Wow, I love what you’ve done with the place. Those plants are so beautiful, do you grow them yourself? And this artwork is simply stunning - did you draw these?” Harry has already placed his suitcase down by the door, shucked off his shoes and started walking around the flat (which seems even tinier than usual because of how tall he is) softly touching his hand to things as he passes them. 

 

Louis feels mortified. Not only does he live in a grotty shithole, he now has a total stranger lying to him to try and make him feel better. “Seriously, it’s ok, I know it’s shit. God I’m sorry I shouldn’t have brought you here. You don’t need to stay. Honestly, I’m sure we can find somewhere for you, the Travelodge normally has roo-”

 

Harry stops and turns, his set in a frown as he reaches out to place a hand on Louis’ shoulder “Hey, no, Stop that. I mean it, this place is lovely. You’ve clearly worked so hard to make it your own and it’s yours. You should be proud of it. It really feels like a home, which is more than can be said for my place.” Louis says nothing, just blushes and tries not to think too hard about how soft and warm Harry’s hand feels pressing through the fabric of his t shirt. 

 

Eventually, after what feels like an entire lifetime, Harry takes his hand away and returns to his self guided tour of the flat. It’s strange, Louis thinks, that it doesn’t feel all that out of the ordinary to have him here. Somehow, Harry fits, which doesn’t make sense because clearly his flat is a million miles from whatever sort of luxury New York apartment Harry lives in, but he just seems to make sense in amongst the hand-me-down furniture and the overgrown spider plants hanging from the ceiling and the piles of tatty second hand books Louis treats himself to from the charity shop round the corner. 

 

Louis realises he’s just been staring at Harry for a good few minutes, following his path around the living room with his eyes, and clears his throat, willing himself to speak. 

 

“Shall I show you where you’re sleeping then? There’s just the one bedroom so that’ll be yours and I’ll sleep in here. It’s only a single. Sorry, probably should have mentioned that. Guessing it’s probably a bit less… fancy than you’re used to.” Louis feels the blush creeping up his neck as he speaks. He’s not normally this embarrassed by his home, never really has the need to be, but to have to lay out in words how basic things are feels exposing somehow, like he’s showing Harry a side of himself that strangers aren’t meant to see.

 

“Oh. You just have a single bed?” Harry looks taken aback, confused almost. Fuck fuck fuck.

 

“Erm, yeah. Shit, sorry. You don’t have to pay me you know. I’m guessing you were probably expecting something a little nicer.” He laughs awkwardly, trying to mask his shame as he scrubs a hand across the back of his neck “Honestly, we can always try and find you something else if you want. I won’t be upset and I bet my mum will know someone.” Louis makes to reach towards the landline phone that’s sitting on a little side table next to the sofa. No point wasting mobile credit when he can call his mum’s house phone for free.

 

Harry’s hand is on his wrist in an instant, holding him in place half an inch above the receiver.

 

“No, shit fuck, sorry that must seem so rude. That isn’t what I meant. It’s just… well firstly, I feel incredibly rude making you sleep in the living room. Please tell me you have an airbed or a sofa bed or  _ something  _ because you really shouldn’t have to be uncomfortable on my behalf and secondly, I assumed that you were in a relationship. You and that receptionist seemed very friendly. So I just thought y’know… you’d have a double.” Now it’s Harry’s turn to turn red, the blush spreading across his cheeks with rapid haste.

 

Louis is caught somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, which actually comes out as a squeaky cough.

 

“Oh my god Zayn? No. No, in every possible way no. I mean he’s pretty, sure, but he’s so definitely not my type. And I’ve known him forever, so eww.” Louis purposely avoids answering the other question. He’ll be sleeping on the sofa and he doesn’t have any spare blankets, but he does have a really nice thick winter coat and what Harry doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He’ll just have to make sure he sets his alarm nice and early to have everything tidied away before he wakes up.

 

Harry’s face softens, and for the first time Louis thinks he sees an almost feminine quality to him, a stark contrast to his first impression. He’s pretty like this, with his guard let down and a shy smile creeping across his lips and his curls all messy from where he’s been running his hands through them. Louis hasn’t had a crush for a while, hasn’t had the time or the inclination for one, but he could definitely see how easy it could be to fall for Harry. 

 

Harry keeps his gaze down at the floor, his eyelashes soft and delicate across his cheek.”So ummm.. What is your type then? Does Doncaster have a lot of beautiful women or-”

 

“No.” It comes out a little harsher than Louis intends it to, but it’s been a long time since he’s had to come out to anyone. All his friends and family have known for years and Doncaster isn’t exactly the biggest town in the world, so he knows pretty much every other openly gay guy around his age in a 20 mile radius. It’s not even like he’s worried Harry will have an issue with it, clearly he already assumed he was gay, but still, it’s the first time he’s had to face the possibility of rejection for quite some time “I mean, maybe. I wouldn’t know. I’m gay. Very, very gay.”

 

“Oh! Good for you. I mean that’s good, for you. Good that you can be yourself. I mean… great. Being gay is great. Fuck-” Harry groans “What I’m trying to say is that I’m gay too and apparently completely socially inept and god, I’d forgotten how weird coming out to strangers is.”

 

Louis feels his heart flutter in his chest before he catches himself, remembering how Harry had spoken about having that special someone he needed to get home for. He can’t let himself get carried away, no matter how pretty or endearing his houseguest may be; he’s simply here for a couple of nights until the can fly back to New York to live in his fancy house, with his fancy boyfriend, working in his fancy job. Nothing more to it than that, this is simply a business transaction. He forces himself to take a deep breath and smile warmly back in Harry’s direction.

 

“Tell me about it. I think the last time I came out was maybe three years ago? I was out in a club and I was sure this guy was hitting on me, giving me the eyes, offered to buy me a drink, the whole thing. Turns out, he was just really into my sister and was hoping I’d give her his number… the look on his face as I slowly explained to him that I liked putting my dick in other men’s arses was amazing though.”

 

Harry blanches and splutters for a couple of seconds before replying “I can imagine”

 

The room goes silent for a moment, Harry’s focus seeming to be exclusively set on cactus he’s absentmindedly stroking. Louis wonders if maybe he’s said too much, but eh, fuck it. He’s going back in a couple of days and if he’s that easily offended, he’s never going to fit in with Louis anyway.

 

Eventually, Harry speaks.

 

“So, which door is your room then?” It’s really a pointless question. There are only three doors in the hallway - one leads to the living room where they’re already standing, another has a poster Zayn had drawn of Louis in the bathroom (complete with rubber duck and a suspiciously placed bubble mountain) and the final one, which is to Louis’ bedroom. Normally, Louis would have a sharp tongued come back ready to fly but he’s already feeling on the back foot and so instead he just silently takes the three steps towards his bedroom (his flat really is  _ very _ small) and opens the door, quickly scanning the room for anything that might need tidying away for polite company. Thankfully, he’s safe.

 

Louis room is small, like every room in his flat, and a little drafty because he always keeps the window open just a smidge to try and air out the damp patch. His single bed is pushed up into the corner to try and make the most of his floor space and he has a battered chest of drawers that used to be his grandma’s before she passed away taking up a good chunk of the opposite wall. Aside from that, there’s a small bookshelf that’s starting to overflow onto the floor, more paintings by Zayn and all his plants. He’s strung a little row of fairy lights around the headboard of his bed and another around the bookshelf and had found a cheap little remote control adaptor that means he can turn them on and off without needing to get out from under the covers. He makes a mental note to show Harry how they work later but for now, he really just wants to get Harry settled in his room and then escape. Every movement Harry makes is like catnip for his dick, and the last thing he needs is to pop a woody like some embarrassing teenager. He’s just not been laid for a while, he tells himself, and Harry is a hell of a lot more beautiful than most of Doncaster's finest offerings. 

 

“I’ll leave you to get settled in yeah? Help yourself to whatever. There’s a spare key in the top kitchen drawer if you want to head out. Gonna pop to the shops to get some food for tea. Is there anything you don’t eat at all?”

 

Harry bites his lip “Well, technically I’m vegan but honestly it’s fine please don’t worry about me. I’m sure whatever you make will be lovely.”

 

Fuck. Louis isn’t the greatest of cooks at the best of times but fucking  _ vegan _ ?! Definitely going to be one to call his mum about. Louis is many things, but most of all, he is proud and he will not let a houseguest see him fail, no matter how hard he’s going to need to try.  

 

“Vegan will be fine. Just… give me your phone a sec? I’m gonna give you my number and you can text me a list of everything you can’t eat. I think I know but better safe than sorry, yeah?”

 

Harry puts his number in Louis’ phone, offering him a thanks and several reassurances that it really is fine and that he doesn’t want to be a hassle but Louis is having none of it. Eventually, he pulls his Vans back on and slips out out the front door, leaving Harry roam about the house and make himself comfortable. The minute the door is closed, Louis lets out a long sigh.  This is going to be harder than he thought.

 

~~~~

 

Dinner had been… fine. Not exactly the tastiest thing he’s ever made, but he managed to pull together a half decent curry with his mum’s help (she talked him down from his initial idea of “A bowl of peas, I’m going to have to feed him a bowl of fucking peas.”). But now Harry is pottering around his tiny kitchen humming to himself and insisting that Louis sit down whilst he does the washing up and Louis doesn’t know what the fuck to do with himself; he keeps accidentally staring at Harry’s arse (it’s not his fault, it’s just at his eye level and the kitchen leads straight out into the living room and Harry keeps fucking  _ wiggling _ it) and it’s becoming more and more excruciating. He picks up the nearest book and forces himself to stare at the page, because the last thing he needs is for Harry to turn round and be face to face with his cock - Harry had switched his suit out for the softest and most expensive looking yoga pants Louis had ever seen, and they do absolutely nothing to hide how spectacularly well-endowed

Harry is, which is simply adding to Louis’ torture. He keeps repeating “He’s taken” to himself like a mantra, trying to pull back from the crush that has very much taken root in the pit of Louis’ stomach.

 

“You do know that book’s upside-down don’t you?”

 

Fuck. 

 

“Fuck. I think I must be tired or something. Long night at work last night.”

 

Louis notices the little frown that passes over Harry’s face at this, but thinks nothing of it. He works hard, even if he does hate his job, and if Harry is going to be judgemental, well fuck him.

 

“You’re not meant to be working tonight are you? Please tell me you’re not going to lose your job because of me or something”

 

Oh. That makes a lot more sense.

 

“Nah, it’s fine.”  _ Technically,  _ Louis should be working tonight - it’s the Saturday before Christmas and he knows that means he could make a pretty decent night’s wages out on deliveries but Harry doesn’t need to know that, doesn’t need to see him in his scratty delivery outfit or get woken up by him coming in at 3am, drenched with sweat and smelling like stale kebabs. 

 

“Hmmm. Well, if you’re sure.”

 

“I’m sure.” Louis tries to flash Harry his best reassuring smile, but there’s a part of his brain doing the calculations on exactly how much he’s going to lose by not working tonight and he’s pretty certain that his smile is more of a grimace now. Bollocks.

 

An awkward silence hangs in the air and Harry is staring at him with that same intensity from earlier, like he’s going to devour him or something. 

 

“Do you want any help setting up your bed in here? I honestly don’t mind helping.”

 

“No, it’s fine. I’ll just do it once you’re settled. You’re a guest and you’ve already done the washing up. I’ll feel like a proper shit if you make my bed too.” Louis is a really shit liar, always has been, always will be, but Harry seems to buy it. 

 

“Okay well, good night then Louis. And thank you again for being my guardian angel.”

 

The sofa is not the most comfortable, and Louis’ coat doesn’t quite cover his feet, but for the first time in what feels like forever, Louis falls asleep with a smile on his face. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to be a chapter a day until Christmas Day and then... maybe a chapter every couple of days until New Year's Eve. New Year's Eve is our big climax (ho, ho, love me a sex pun). I thought about posting it all in one go but honestly? That's just not how I roll.


	2. Sunday 23rd December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains scenes of excessive plaster application.

 

Louis wakes up just before his alarm goes off at bastard early in the morning and quickly tidies away his makeshift bed on the sofa, hanging his coat back up on the hook by the door and carefully plumping up the cushions. He’s pretty certain that Harry didn’t come in during the night, so his pretense of owning a sofa bed remains intact. Louis doesn’t even know  _ why _ he’s decided to omit the truth about his sleeping situation from Harry, but he does know that he hates the thought of doing anything that might mean Harry chooses to stay somewhere else, and if that means lying about where he slept last night, so be it. It’s funny, because Harry is technically a total stranger, but last night over tea was one of the most relaxed and enjoyable evenings that Louis’ had for a long time. It turns out they’d both recently read the same book ( _ Norwegian Wood  _ by _ Haruki Murakami _ ) and had vastly differing opinions on it; Harry claimed it to be one of the greatest novels of the late Twentieth Century and Louis felt it was mildly overrated hipster nonsense. It had been a good natured discussion though, if a little heated, full of back and forth and gentle jibes at each other. They had slipped into their roles with the ease of something much more familiar, but it had felt entirely natural. 

 

He doesn’t hear any signs of life from the bedroom, so sets about making himself a quick breakfast of toast and Asda Smart Price Lemon Curd with a mug of Yorkshire tea on the side. For a moment, he panics, worrying about what he’s going to feed Harry- he’d forgotten to ask about just exactly what vegans eat for breakfast when he’d nipped down to the shops yesterday. He has the basics though, and surely something like toast and a banana will do. If not, well… it’s not his responsibility and Harry will just have to cope. Or at least that’s what he’s trying to tell himself, even if he knows deep down that he’ll be out to the shops in the blink of an eye to make sure Harry has everything he needs. 

 

He’s pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the front door closing and Harry’s voice drifting in from the hallway.

 

“Morning Lou! God it’s cold out there, definitely should have packed warmer running clothes.”

 

Harry is stood in Louis’ hallway, shivering in the tiniest pair of yellow running shorts Louis thinks he’s even seen and a grey, tight fitting, long sleeved top. He’s wearing a pair of running shoes that look like they’ve seen better days, and his curls are bundled into a little knot on top of his head. His face is red, from both cold and exertion, and tiny beads of sweat are making their way down his temples, his breathing ragged. Louis isn’t sure if he’s ever seen anything or anyone more beautiful in his entire life.

 

Beneath Harry’s arm is a fresh loaf of bread from the little baker’s down the road (Louis wasn’t aware they even opened this early on a Sunday morning) and hooked over his shoulder is a pastel pink tote bag with the logo for some health food store in LA emblazoned across in white cursive print, clearly full of food. He carefully places the bag on the floor whilst he unlaces his shoes, balancing precariously on one leg whilst he fiddles with the knot.

 

“You can take them off on the sofa you know. I really don’t mind shoes inside the house”

 

Harry glances up at him, tongue bitten between his teeth in concentration as his fingers continue to work “Don’t want to make your house all dirty. Ran down by the river for a while and it was a bit of a mudfest.” Louis glances at Harry’s legs and notices that they’re streaked with dark brown specks from the bottom of his calves to just beneath the line of his shorts. He thinks for a moment what it would be like to lick that same path, to taste the salt of Harry’s warm post-run skin across his tongue, before quickly pulling his attention back to the room where Harry has finally managed to unlace his shoes and is now walking towards Louis, the pink bag held out in front of him like a gift.

 

“Picked up a couple of bits for breakfast, I hope that’s ok. I just really love to cook and I wanted to say thank you, especially as you cooked such a wonderful meal last night. Also sorry, I’m pretty certain I smell like sweat and fields.”

 

He smells divine, Louis thinks, like earth and man and exertion and something sweet, almost like honey, but he’s not going to say that. He feels his body make to lurch forward, driven by the desire to press his face against Harry’s neck and inhale, let himself be intoxicated by his scent, but he manages to hold back, his fingers gripping the kitchen counter to keep him in place. 

 

“You smell fine. And thank you, that’s really kind, you really didn’t have to. I should be feeding you, you’re paying me after all” Louis laughs awkwardly and shifts his body just a little in an attempt to hide the half eaten slice of cheap white bread with even cheaper luminous yellow curd from Harry’s view. 

 

Thankfully, Harry is so distracted by pulling a seemingly endless stream of ingredients out of his bag that he doesn’t notice Louis slide the plate out from behind him and discreetly deposit its contents in the bin. What Harry does notice though is the sound of Louis dropping the plate to the ground with an almighty crash as he removes his sweat soaked top and wraps it around his waist.

 

Harry turns round, a mortified look across his face “Oh my god I’m so sorry. I completely forgot that I wasn’t at home then, was just totally in the french toast zone. Look, let me pause on these and I’ll go shower. Sorry, I know that’s rude of me. I just hate wearing sweaty clothes, they start getting all cold and stiff and gross.”

 

Louis makes a strangled noise of agreement, all attempts to reassure Harry that it’s honestly _fine_ stuck in his throat. He tries to focus his attention on clearing up the scattered shards of the broken plate that are spread across his kitchen floor, picking each piece up with his fingers, not wanting to deal with squeezing around a half naked Harry to grab the dustpan and brush that lives underneath the kitchen sink. Of course, because he’s cursed or something, he manages to cut himself almost instantly, exclaiming a sharp “fuck” under his breath. 

 

Harry is on him in an instant, dropping straight down into a crouch and grasping Louis hand in his, pulling it forward to examine. Anyone looking in from the outside would assume that Louis had been mortally wounded, that his life was on the on the line. Thankfully, that isn’t the case -  the cut is small, not even half a centimetre into the pad of his thumb, but there’s still a fair amount of blood and Louis is starting to feel kind of queasy. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on his breathing; he’s never been good with blood, even his own, and he’s a total wuss when it comes to any sort of pain. Having a semi-naked god of a man in front of him tending to him like Florence bloody Nightingale probably isn’t helping either. He feels the room start to spin around him and Harry must notice because the next thing he feels are strong arms shifting his weight to lean back against the kitchen cupboard and soft fingertips brushing his fringe to the side. 

 

“You alright there Lou? Let me get you some water. Don’t move, just stay there and keep breathing. Thought you were going to pass out on me there, you went all pale and swoony. Have you got a first aid kit? You’re going to be fine, I promise, it’s just a little cut, we’ll have you back to normal in no time.”

 

Louis feels desperately aware of the fact that Harry is still touching him, gently brushing his forehead and rubbing soft patterns across his hand, carefully avoiding the cut. If he didn’t feel like he honestly might pass out at any moment, he would be embarrassingly turned on, but as it is, he’s just embarrassed. 

 

“I’m fine. Just being a wuss. Don’t like blood,“ he attempts to laugh but the sound gets stuck in his throat and he feels the ground swell up to meet him. “First aid kit is in the bathroom cupboard.”

 

He’s barely finished speaking before Harry is up and padding deftly around him to take the short couple of steps to the bathroom. Louis keeps his eyes closed and focuses on the sound of the cupboard door opening and closing, the zip of the little green kit being opened and the shuffling as Harry sorts through, looking for what he needs. He feels the brush of Harry’s bare leg against his arm as he mavoures around him towards the sink, and it sends a shiver through his entire body. In all of the commotion, he’d almost forgotten that Harry is, for all intents and purposes, half naked as he tends to him and really, the universe is a cruel mistress sometimes. 

 

Harry’s voice snaps him back into the room

 

“Do you think you can open your eyes to drink this water Lou? I’ve covered up your hand so you won’t see anything” Louis notices now that Harry appears to be pressing some sort of cold compress into his thumb and decides it’s probably safe to risk following Harry’s instructions. 

 

He’s met with Harry’s face looming in front of his, features knit together in clear concern. He’s crouched down at eye level, perched on the balls of his feet, one hand holding a glass of water and the other pressing a damp paper towel into his thumb. Louis takes the water, attempts to shoot Harry a small smile of thanks and forces himself to drink, closing his eyes again once the glass meets his lip because sure, he might not be able to see blood but having his vision crowded by a near nude Harry Styles is enough to have him start swaying woozily again. Louis had barely had the time to register it before, but Harry is the most delectable combination of muscular and soft; his arms and shoulders have the clear definition of someone who works out, and yet his tummy and hips curve out gently, adding to an air of femininity Louis had already noticed the day before. His upper body is littered with tattoos that had been hidden for the most part last night and Louis wants to spend hours exploring each and every one of them, tracing their outlines with his fingertips and learning all of their meanings. And his nipples, oh holy fuck, his nipples. For a start, there’s four of them, Louis notices, two small nubs just a little way down and then the main two, the two almost directly in Louis’ eyeline were he to risk opening them again, which are big and dark and puffy and my god, what Louis would give to bite them. So yes, definitely safer to keep his eyes closed. 

 

“Oh Lou, I’m so sorry I shouldn’t have suggested opening your eyes, you’ve gone all woozy again haven’t you? I didn’t think the blood would seep through so quickly. You just keep them closed and I’ll get you all cleaned up. You’re gonna be ok, I’ve got you.”

 

Louis knows, on some level at least, that it’s utterly stupid to let himself get caught up in the fantasy of it all, but there’s something so comforting and reassuring about Harry taking care of him, even if he’s clearly clueless as to the effect he’s having right now. Sure, this won’t last,  _ can’t  _ last because America and a special someone and why would someone like Harry even want someone like Louis in the first place, but there’s nothing that says he can’t just enjoy the moment of being looked after by a pretty boy for once. 

 

He’s pulled from his thoughts by the sharp sting of antiseptic being swipe across his cut and he drags in a sharp breath through his teeth

 

“Oh shit, sorry I should have warned you. There, all done now.” Harry runs his finger across the plaster, smoothing it out, before pulling it to his lips and giving it the gentlest of kisses, so tender that Louis would think he was imagining it if it weren’t for the fact that he opens his eyes at the exact same time as Harry’s lips make contact with his injured thumb. 

 

Harry doesn’t pull away as quickly as Louis expects him to, just looks at him with his big green doe eyes as his cheeks flush a delicate shade of pink.

 

“Where’s the dustpan then?” he asks, as though he hadn’t just made Louis’ heart stop beating in his chest.

 

All Louis can bring himself to do is point in the direction of the cupboard beneath the sink, and if he brings his thumb to his own lips to steal the imprint of Harry’s kiss onto his own lips, nobody needs to know. 

  
  


~~~~

The day passes more quickly than Louis would like, and it’s silly because he’s only known Harry for 24 hours, but by the end of the day he finds himself wishing that Harry didn’t live a million miles away and didn’t have that special someone back home. Because the thing is, being with Harry is the easiest thing in the world, easier than breathing, easier than just being on his own. They fit together somehow, the conversation flowing easily between the two of them, their movements strangely in sync. Louis can’t remember the last time he completely lost track of time with someone, but he knows it’s been a while and yet with Harry he’s honestly found it hard to stay focused on anything other than the the two of them. 

 

When Harry disappears into the bathroom after dinner, Louis checks his phone to find a string of messages from Zayn and Niall wondering why he’s not been in the hotel all day and asking if he wants to come out for a pre-Birthday pint. He should probably respond to them, but right now, he’s too caught up in this moment, in this good feeling that’s swirling around in his chest. He knows it’ll be ending soon, that he can’t keep living in the fantasy forever, so he can’t be blamed for trying to keep hold of it for as long as possible. Zayn and Niall will understand; they’re always on at him try relax a little more, to find someone whose company he actually enjoys, so if they’re anything other than understanding he’ll be giving them an earful anyway.

 

As Harry comes out of the bathroom, he’s holding his phone in his hand too, a somber look taking hold of his features “Good news Lou, there’s a plane first thing tomorrow. I’ll be making it home for Christmas after all. You get your bed back too. Sure you’ll be glad to be rid of me.” His voice sounds all weak and reedy, but Louis doesn’t notice that, just hears the words as he feels his stomach drop to the floor. 

 

If Louis were a braver man, this would be the moment when he walks up to Harry and kisses him with all the depth and passion that’s coursing through his veins, but he’s not, so he doesn’t. Instead he forces a half smile onto his face and mutters a vague agreement before turning back to his phone. He knows this isn’t the way that mature adults deal with being disappointed but he feels stupid for letting himself entertain the idea that something could have happened in the first place, that Harry would be anything other than eager to get home. So instead he texts Niall and Zayn, telling them to find Liam and meet him at the pub in 30 minutes. If Harry is that desperate to be gone, he’ll just give him the space to have his final night in Doncaster without him. 

 

“I’m heading out. Pre birthday drinks and all that. Make yourself at home and come say bye before you leave in the morning if you’ve got time yeah?”

 

He turns and leaves before Harry has a chance to respond, so he doesn’t see the look of utter confusion on his face as he walks away, doesn’t hear the softly muttered “Stay,” that Harry lets out under his breath. As far as Louis knows, he’s just a useless boy from Doncaster with an unrequited crush, and as far as Harry is concerned, he’s a just huge inconvenience from New York who stumbled into the life of the most enchanting man he’s ever met. 

 

If they only knew. 

 

~~~~

Louis stumbles back into the flat well past midnight, completely forgetting that the noise he makes might wake up his guest (and, even if he did remember, he wouldn’t care anyway because he’s  _ leaving _ in the morning and they’re never going to see each other again). He promptly collapses on the sofa, pulling his coat over him before he passes straight out. 

 

He’s vaguely aware of the feeling of being lifted and carried in the direction of his bedroom, but it’s probably just a dream. Same goes for the feeling of someone gently placing him in his bed and carefully removing his trainers, because there isn’t anyone in Louis’ life who would do such a thing, especially not when he’s two sheets to the wind and smells like stale beer from the pint Niall had “accidentally” throw down him a few hours earlier. He thinks he might feel the sensation of his covers being pulled over him and is tempted to believe that he feels a soft pair of lips pressed against his forehead just before he falls asleep. If it weren’t for the gentle American voice saying “You’re beyond lovely. I hope you know that Lou”, he might just let himself have this, might let himself accept it as being real, but he knows there’s no way that could have happened, not with Harry so eager get back to whoever it is that has his heart, so he doesn’t. 

 

Instead, he just lets himself enjoy the dream and ignores the single tear that slides down across his cheek as he falls asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet none of you could see that that was going to happen, could you? (I joke, literally any of you who've read anything I've ever written before will have been fully expecting this)


	3. Christmas Eve: Louis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry this took so long! Christmas happened and then my soul got ripped apart and rebuilt by one of the best fics I’ve ever read (Saving Symphony Hall and like...please go read it. It’s wonderful).
> 
> ANYWAY here is Louis’s Christmas Eve chapter. Does that mean we get a Harry’s Christmas Eve chapter? Impossible to say.

Louis 30th Birthday is possibly one of the most miserable he’s had for a long while.

 

He’s woken up by a loud clatter and the sound of someone swearing under their breath next to his head. It’s early - too early for how late he got in - and his head is pounding and  _ huh _ , somehow he’s in his bed which is odd, because he’s sure he remembers falling face down on the sofa when he finally made it home. He blearily opens his eyes and comes face to face with the fuzzy silhouette of Harry Styles’ stupid, perfect face, all cast in the shadows of the half light of dawn.

 

“Ycanputtalighon y’know” 

 

“What?”

 

Louis clears his throat and lips his licks, willing the sleep out of himself.

 

“I said you can put a light on you know. You don’t need to stumble around in the dark on my behalf. What am I doing in here anyway? Oh fuck I didn’t-?” Louis is overcome, overwhelmed by the thought of embarrassing himself, forcing himself onto Harry in his sad and drunken state, doing something,  _ anything _ that might push this absolute dream of man, who is leaving any minute now, even further away. He’d never forgive himself.

 

Harry blushes.

 

“Oh goodness Louis, no! Please don’t worry, nothing happened - I would never take advantage of you like that. I’m so sorry if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable, it’s just when you were out I tried to set up the sofa bed for you and I couldn’t work it out because I’m pretty certain that sofa isn’t a sofa bed and so then I looked everywhere for the blankets but couldn’t find them. I just...I didn’t want you to do another night on the sofa in the cold, so I bought you in here when you got back. I slept on the floor, don’t worry. Oh and you have an air bed a spare duvet now. I didn’t want to set it up last night because it seemed like a bit of a faff and I quite like sleeping on the floor, good for my back. Hope that’s ok, I’ve tucked them in the cupboard in the hallway already.”

 

At some point, not too far off in the future, everything that’s happened in the past 12 or so hours will finally sink in for Louis, but not right now. Right now he is tired, and has the most beautiful person he’s ever seen looming in front of him and he knows, deep in the ache of his bones, that Harry will never want him, could never be with him. Not only does he have that special someone back home, he now also knows that Louis is pathetically poor. And a liar. 

 

No wonder he’s so desperate to get back.

 

Louis takes a moment to blink his eyes, flex his jaw - he’s almost definitely still drunk because he’s been asleep for less than four hours and the headache hasn’t even kicked in yet, but he feels surprisingly fresh headed in spite of it all, the clarity of rejection pushing into him like a hot knife. As though Harry can read his mind, a glass of water and a packet of paracetamol appears in front of him, held steadily in Harry’s hands 

 

“Drink this please. And take these. I don’t like the thought of leaving you like this but I’m sure you’ve dealt with hangovers before. What were you out for anyway? Seemed like a fun night.” Harry’s voice is laced with care and concern but something else too, maybe rejection, or, and this is the point where Louis knows he  _ must _ still be drunk, maybe something like jealousy. 

 

Bur also, it looks like they’re just not mentioning the fact that he turned and his heel and left, Louis thinks, and a petty part of him wants the drama of being fought for, of Harry suddenly begging him to give him a reason to stay. But clearly, that’s not going to happen, which is fine. Two can play that game.

 

“S’mybirthday. Today.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Oh?  _ Oh? _ That’s all he has to say? No ‘ _ Happy Birthday’ _ ? No ‘ _ Congratulations’ _ ? Just ‘Oh’. Well, at least Louis doesn’t have to worry about whether Harry likes him back or not, because it’s perfectly, abundantly apparent that he does not, he’s broadcasting it loud and clear like a radio beacon. 

 

Louis drinks the water and swallows down the pills, feeling them slosh down into his empty stomach. He should probably eat something at some point, try to soak a bit of the alcohol up or something but eh, that can wait.

 

“Don’t you have to leave soon? What time’s your flight?” 

 

Louis isn’t going to let himself be vulnerable, isn’t going to let Harry see all of the desire and longing and regret that’s swimming around his insides. He’s going to stay focused, going to protect his heart and he’s going to be over this whole…  _ thing _ before New Years comes around. He is. 

 

Harry sighs softly as he straightens himself to stand, his eyes flicking to the dim red LED display on Louis’ old, battered radio alarm clock. 

 

“I should probably have left a good five minutes ago but I didn’t want to leave without making sure you were ok.”

 

Patronising arse, Louis thinks to himself.

 

“I’m fine. I’ll live. Been hungover and alone many times before, will no doubt be many times again.” He toys for a moment with throwing out a barb, something acidic that will stick in Harry’s skin and linger on the flight home - the idea that he could have brought someone back with him, the suggestion that Harry was only here because Louis wanted the cash - but he doesn’t. Even with the deep wound of rejection running deep through him, Louis can’t bring himself to sever whatever this had been completely. 

 

Harry is already leaning against Louis’ door frame. Just a couple more steps and he’ll be gone and away, never to been seen or heard from again.

 

“Ok, well. Goodbye then Louis Tomlinson. And thank you for being my angel.”

 

Louis tries to reply, wills his tongue to move and speak, but the words catch in his throat and he just can’t seem to bring himself to do it. He thinks he hears Harry let out a long sigh just as he closes the door, but honestly, it could just be the brush of the wind coming in through the rattling single glazed panes of his window, so he thinks no more of it and instead rolls himself back over, willing for the comforting numbness of sleep.

 

~~~

 

When Louis wakes later, the first thing that hits him is the fading smell of Harry’s cologne on his pillow, all vanilla and musk and just a hint of something deeper, like tobacco. Louis, ever the grown up, throws his pillow at the wall in response. The soundless  _ thump _ it makes as it falls to the ground is deeply unsatisfying, and Louis groans as he pulls himself up, legs swinging over the side of the bed. 

 

As he pads out towards the kitchen, he tries to pull together all the stray threads of last night in his mind - he remembers the golden glow of joy and happiness, of potential and hope. It’s quickly replaced by the harsh ripping sensation that overwhelmed him as Harry told him he was flying back, all pale blue and sharp angles. The rest of the evening is a blur of black tar and burnt wood, of drinking too many pints of cheap beer too fast, of dancing on tables in Doncaster’s shittiest excuse for a gay bar, of a hand on his arse and a whisper in his ear and a sensation like saltwater in his lungs when his brain told him it wasn’t Harry. He’s fucked. He’s utterly fucked and he needs tea, stat. 

 

As he’s scrambling around in the cupboards looking for something to eat and wincing at the kettle for boiling too loudly for his hungover head to manage, his eye is drawn to a small white envelope propped up against an impeccably wrapped Christmas gift; brown parcel paper, crisply wrapped around a small box with the neatest edges Louis thinks he’s ever seen. He can’t even see the bloody sellotape and wonders if it’s held together by sheer will alone. It’s tied up with soft silk ribbon, a gloriously deep berry red, and Louis can’t help but run the ends through his fingers, soaking in the sensation, letting it soothe him. Tucked behind the bow is a perfect spring of holly, deep green in the middle contrasted with a pale and creamy yellow edge, and Louis wonders where in the name of ever loving fuck Harry found holly in Donny city centre. 

 

He sighs to himself, taking a final glance at the gift before resolving that should really be patient and open it tomorrow, before he turns his attention to the card. 

 

His name is curved across the front in small, loopy handwriting and Louis brushes his thumb across it as though he’d somehow be able to feel anything other than the dull rub of paper across his skin. There’s no magic spark, the letters don’t glow, no voice booms out; it’s just him, alone in his flat, with a cheap kettle that rattles on its base as it nears boiling point, the thrum of traffic drifting in from outside and a single tear that he didn’t realise had fallen blurring together the middle of his name in Harry’s neat script. Of course he’d use a proper fountain pen, where the ink never truly sets. Of course. Louis runs his finger carefully under the envelope’s seal, wanting to preserve it somehow, keep it intact. 

 

The card inside makes Louis’ breath catch in his throat; it’s hand drawn, in pen and ink, and is the most perfect rendition of his tiny flat’s living room but with a festive twist. Dotted around the room are little additions - a robin on the windowsill, a sprig of holly behind the curtain rail, a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. It’s perfect and makes Louis heart ache in a way he hasn’t felt for quite some time. As he opens it, a single piece of paper flutters to the countertop, landing face down. It’s a long, thin rectangle and  _ fuck _ , in amongst it all, Louis had forgotten that Harry had said he would pay him. That really, this was all just a business arrangement, a favour for someone stranded, an act of kindness to save his friends from dealing with angry Americans just before Christmas. Weird to have used a cheque though, like who even has a chequebook and who carries it with them wherever they go and, Louis may roll eyes at this thought, why give a cheque when cash is so much easier?

 

He swipes it up off the table and flips it over and oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck that fucking fucker. 

 

£500. 

 

The cheque, for two nights staying in Louis’ damp, cold, noisy little flat is for £500.

 

Louis pulls out his phone immediately and opens up WhatsApp (Harry had made him download it the day before because apparently this way they could stay in touch for free but fuck that and fuck everything)

 

**Louis:** _ Is this a joke?  _

 

Louis taps send and then places his phone face down on the countertop when he remembers that Harry is probably flying already. No point torturing himself over it so he sets about making the cup of tea that he’d been working on and is just lifting the kettle when his phone buzzes. He turns, looking at his phone as though it’s some foreign creature that’s invaded his home and it buzzes again. 

 

**Harry:** _ I’m sorry Lou but I’m not sure that was for me? My last text was “Do you need any more groceries?” which was sent at 4.27pm yesterday afternoon.  _

 

**Harry:** _ Is everything ok? _

 

Oh. Maybe planes have WiFi or something? Maybe he didn’t fly? Maybe he’s coming bac- Louis stops himself. Don’t be an idiot Lou, he’s not coming back, he’s just loaded. Which, of course, is why Harry fucking Styles would have no idea what Louis was talking about, wouldn’t think twice about the fact that he’s just given Louis more than half his monthly wages without even batting an eye. 

 

They’d spoken about the differences between them, about Harry’s job working corporate law and how his heart ached to move over to human rights but he didn’t have the background, about how Louis had dreams of setting up a little community organisation to help teenagers learn all the basic life skills his mum had been kind enough to teach him (cooking and budgeting and how not to fuck cheap clothes up in your washing machine) but he could never find the money to make it work. They’d spoken about their dreams for where they’d live in an idea world (Louis said London and Harry had said so many places that they both lost count). At one point, in half whispers and with his eyes locked firmly on the stray thread at the hem of his t shirt, Louis had even opened up to Harry about how hard it was to be trying to make it all work and his ever present thought that maybe he should just give up and move back home. Tears had prickled in his eyes and Harry had pulled him close for a hug that Louis felt go straight into his bones and if a tear or two fell down his cheeks, neither of them said anything about it. 

 

And yet, here he was, flashing his cash to  _ what? _ Remind Louis how shit his life was? To rub in that difference between them? To really cement the fact that Louis would never, ever be good enough for him? 

 

 **Louis:** _You know what I mean and if you don’t know, quite frankly you’re an arse._

 

He waits, staring at the screen as the ticks turns blue.  _ Harry is typing… _ appears at the top, and then goes again. Appears, disappears. Again and again until Louis almost throws his phone at the wall in frustration. Eventually, after what feels like hours, his phone vibrates in his palm

 

 **Harry** : _I’m sorry Lou, but I really don’t_ _so I guess that makes me an arse :( Whatever it is, I really hope you can forgive me. I didn’t mean to do anything to upset you._

 

Louis blows a huff of air out of his nose and opens the top drawer to scrabble for a lighter. He’s not really smoked much for the past couple of days, had even been toying with quitting, but right now he needs a fag because Yorkshire tea alone is not going to be enough to get through whatever the fuck this is. 

 

As he pulls the half crumpled packet of Malboroughs from the inside of his coat pocket, his phone buzzes once, twice, three times, rattling its way along the counter top. He flips it back over, glancing down through his lashes at the screen as he sparks up. 

 

**Harry:** _ oh wait! Do you mean the mugs? _

 

**Harry** :  _ I’m sorry if that was a little presumptive? Or forward. Fuck. I thought it was cute.  _

 

**Harry:** _ I’m an idiot.  _

 

Mugs? What fucking mu- Oh. The Christmas present. Well, Louis thinks to himself, might as well add whatever the fuck they are to this whole clusterfuck of a morning. 

 

His hangover is starting to press in at the side of his temples and he really, really needs to eat something soon if the growl in his stomach is anything to go by, but his curiosity is getting the better of him and he doesn’t want to lose Harry’s attention while he still has it. 

 

He’s not careful this time, not like with the envelope. He stubs out his cigarette first and then rips off the brown paper of Harry’s gift in a frantic motion, sliding the ribbon free from its bow first. The next layer is a plain white box, and inside is soft pastel pink tissue paper run through with flecks of gold. There’s something about the tissue paper that stalls Louis’ frantic motions and makes him take a breath. Which,  _ huh _ , he leans closer, inhaling again. The paper has just the faintest hint of sweet spiced vanilla, deep and musky and exactly the way his pillow has smelt just hours earlier. The whole thing is so fundamental  _ Harry _ that it makes his chest ache. 

 

Beneath the first layer of tissue is a card, written in the same looped cursive he’s come to know as Harry’s :

 

_ For next time? H x _

 

Louis pulls the final layer of tissue away and finds two mugs. Who the fuck buys  _ mugs _ as a Christmas present? 

 

And oh,  _ oh _ they aren’t just mugs. They’re  _ matching  _ mugs. 

 

They feel expensive, weighty and smooth and delicate, not like Louis’ crappy 4 for £1 mugs from the market. Their handles curve delicately, the china a deep, gleaming cream glaze, and across the front, in that same loopy, swirling handwriting (meaning Harry had bought the mugs and fucking customised them and _when_ _had he even had the time or found the resources_ ) were their names, or more, the half nicknames they’d fallen into during their time together:

 

_ Hazza & Lou _

 

If Louis were less tired, less hungover, less weighed down by an aching heart, he’d maybe respond differently, would understand what Harry is trying, so clumsily, to say. But he’s not and so he doesn’t. Instead, he just puts the mugs back in the box, seals it up and heads back to bed. 

 

The fact that he’s still clutching a single scrap of pale pink Harry scented tissue paper in his hand is neither here nor there, not really. He just forgets to put it down is all, and then by the time he’s in bed it’s easier to tuck it inside his pillow case than to try to aim for the bin. That’s what he tells himself at least, as he pulls the covers back up over his head and spends the first day of his 30th year softly sobbing alone, in a single bed, in a shitty cold flat on Doncaster High Street as the man his heart aches for flies all the way to the other side of the world without him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry ok? I promise it’s all going to be fine but I just can’t help but go a little bit angsty. Just hold on. It’s going to be FINE I promise.


	4. Christmas Eve/Christmas Day: Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OF COURSE I'M GIVING YOU HARRY'S POV. I'm not a monster.

Harry taps the power button on his phone again, forcing the screen to light up. He quickly shields it with his hand, having already been subject to a litany of sighs and huffs from the man trying to sleep next to him, and pulls the brightness all the way down. 20 minutes and Louis still hadn’t responded to his last text. Shit.

 

He presses his thumb to the bottom of the screen, unlocking his phone, and opens up WhatsApp - his messages are there, the two blue ticks showing that they were most definitely read and delivered, but no reply. And now, the little banner under Louis’ name informs him that Louis hasn’t been seen since the minute after they were sent. Harry draws his lower lip into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth, and wonders whether he should try to call. He could call, technically, given that the plane has WiFi. But.. well. Louis already thinks he’s an arse and clearly he could reply, if he wants to. Unless something had happened. No, no, Harry, deep breaths. Nothing has happened. The last thing this situation needs is a full blown panic attack. 

 

Harry pulls his travel bag out from beneath his seat and quietly pats around to look for his sleeping gear - a silk eye mask, a pair of silicone earplugs to be worn beneath his noise cancelling headphones and two bright blue sleeping tablets. He hadn’t taken them before, not wanting to risk miss anything just in case Louis text and told him that the rejection was all just a big misunderstanding, begged him to come back. He would, in a heartbeat. Well, not quite a heartbeat, because he really does need to be back in New York for Christmas Day, but after that, he would. He really would. But now? Well, it’s probably better for everyone if he sleeps and he’s pretty certain that the man who just let out a quiet “Thank fuck” next to him as he slipped the mask over his eyes would agree. 

 

~~~~

 

The yawn that Harry lets out as he twists his key in the lock is embarrassingly loud. He tries to stifle it in the crook of his elbow, but even that doesn’t seem to help all that much. He’s tired and confused and has no idea what time it is. This is not his normal Christmas Eve routine - normally, he spends Christmas Eve morning finishing up his wrapping, a bellini in one hand and his custom sellotape gun in the other, Kacey Musgraves’ green vinyl Christmas album merrily spinning on his record player, drifting through his multi-room speaker set up. Normally, he makes a double batch of French Toast, with extra icing sugar and a homemade berry compote, and normally, on Christmas Eve, his heart doesn’t feel like it’s been split in two. But there’s been nothing normal about the past few days. Nothing normal at all. 

 

On some level, Harry feels like there should be something different about his apartment, but there isn’t. It’s the same as he left it and that just makes him feel even worse. His apartment couldn’t be further from the homely nook he’d spent the past couple of days in, and he wonders how a place he’d been for less than half a week could feel more like home than the apartment he’s lived in for just over three years. 

 

Harry’s apartment is big, by New York standards at least, and modern. It’s open and airy and bright, with crisp white walls and cavernously tall ceilings. He has a colour palette ( _ well _ , his interior designer slash best friend Nick has a colour palette, Harry had just smiled and handed over his credit card) and that colour palette is monochrome and gold. His kitchen counters are gleaming black granite, his large sectional couch is a warm, deep grey, upholstered in plush velvet, accented by golden silk throw pillows. He has plants, but they aren't like Louis’. 

 

Louis knows the names of his plants, knows their quirks and their likes and their dislikes. Louis can tell you exactly how much water each one needs and their common names and latin names and where in the room they’ll be happiest. Louis has grown his from scratch, lovingly brought each tender seedling to full growth, dedicated a part of himself to the care and adoration of them all, a little family of living beings for him to nurture and love. Louis’ plants are a part of him, they’re something real and alive and so full of beauty, such a perfect reflection of him, that Harry’s face had hurt as he watched Louis’ speak about them. Harry’s plants are glorified ornaments, watered by the cleaner on her twice visit, quickly thrown out and replaced if they start to droop.

 

Where Louis has a temperamental boiler and a heating system that was quite clearly designed by sadists, Harry has a thermostat controlled by his phone and the ability to heat every room in his home to a different temperature through a combination of state of the art underground and wall mounted heating panels. Where Louis has a single pane of glass in each of his windows, poorly fit into a cracked wooden, Harry has soundproofed glass to keep the sounds of the city at bay. Where Louis has a view of Doncaster High Street, Harry has a view of Manhattan. Where Louis has a flat full of warmth and love and life, and yes, ok, a whole lot of shit that he has to deal with, Harry has a cold and empty apartment that just reminds him of how utterly meaningless his life had become before getting stranded. It had almost felt like there was something bigger at work, getting stranded, like maybe something or someone had  _ wanted _ him to end up there. Or at least that’s what Harry had thought when he’d been scanning the newspapers at the airport and seen that there weren’t even any bloody drones in the first place and his flight had been delayed for nothing. Now though? Now, Harry doesn’t know what to think.

  
  


His first thought is that he would really quite like to curl up in his bed right now, maybe sleep his way through Christmas and all the way into the New Year. Let himself mope and wallow, cry his way through Love, Actually and The Holiday, maybe order take out and just pretend that Christmas isn’t happening this year, but he can’t do that because he has someone waiting for him, someone relying on him to make their Christmas every bit as magical as it has been every year since he first moved in, and he’s damned if he’s going to let that part of his life fuck up as well. So instead, he leaves his bags in the hallway, throws his coat on the rack, swaps his shoes for the soft slippers that his cleaner has left lined up by the door and heads to into his kitchen. 

 

Now, for all that Harry’s apartment is cold and lifeless and a thousand miles from the loving comfort of Louis’ flat, the one bit of it that he truly loves is his kitchen. That’s the only part he’d got involved in designing, sinking hours into researching exactly which appliances he needed and giving Nick strict instructions on the precise layout to optimise the space. Nick had never been much of a cook, preferring to live off brunch at boutique hipster joints downtown, so Harry didn’t feel like risking leaving that part to him. He’d probably have had ended up with a 3 foot square kitchenette with only a microwave, a sink and a sex swing to work with (which was basically the set up of Nick’s kitchen space these days, god love him). He couldn’t take the risk. 

 

Cooking is Harry’s happy place, or more specifically, baking, but really anything that lets him focus on the slow and methodical combining of ingredients to create something delicious helps him feel focused and calm. So cooking is what he’s going to do, and he’s going to do it well, because it matters and because Christmas dinner has always been his favourite, more than Thanksgiving, more than anything. 

 

The savoury dishes he’ll make in the morning; this afternoon is going to be all about the desserts. Ordinarily, he’d probably have started on these yesterday or the day before, but it’s nothing he can’t manage. First though? Coffee. 

 

~~~

By the time Harry is done, he has a batch of perfectly baked mince pies (he’d fallen in love with them on a business trip to England a few years back and has made them every year since), a cherry and cinnamon cobbler and a chocolate chestnut torte. It’s not as impressive as his usual spread, but it’s only ever the two of them on Christmas Day and he always makes too much anyway so at least this way he’s not going to have to spend the rest of the week living off dessert. He’s been so caught up in the rhythm of baking that he’s barely had time to glance at his phone, but now his eye is caught by the screen lighting up so he rubs his icing sugar dusted hands across the front of his slacks and thumbs open the screen. It’s a voicemail notification and Harry pulls his phone up to his ear as fast as he can, already knowing who it’s from. 

 

Louis’ voice sounds raspy, dry throated, cracked and it makes Harry wince as he listens. 

 

_ “I’ve spent all day trying to work this out and I honestly have no idea what to think. I’ve spent my whole birthday in crying bed because somewhere along the line, I was stupid enough to think that someone like you could ever want someone like me. That’s how pathetic I am. I know you’re not even available, and clearly, CLEARLY, you were desperate to get home to him, so I have no idea why you’d even suggest coming back here. If it’s as friends, I’m afraid that just can’t happen. I just want to make sure we’re clear - I like you, more than I have liked anyone in a very long time, and so I just need you to not call or text or anything. It might have seemed cute to you to have god... god I don’t know what the fuck those mugs were meant to be and the cheque I’m guessing was just to really rub home how pathetic my life is? I don’t know. I don’t get it. I can’t believe I actually told you all that stuff about hating living here. Fucking hell, I’m an idiot. Anyway, fuck, rambling. Hope you’re happy. You’re probably laughing at this with your boyfriend aren’t you? Ok. I’m going now. Embarrassed myself enough. Don’t call me back please.” _

 

Harry listens to it again, and a third time and fuck it, a fourth just to make sure he he’s genuinely heard it right. There’s so much to unpack that his heart feels like it might explode in his chest, he feels dizzy with the effort of trying to process it all. The thought of Louis alone, crying and thinking it could ever be possible that Harry didn’t reciprocate all of those feelings and more for him. The harsh reality of not being able to reach out and comfort him. The idea that Louis would ever think that Harry would look down on him, that he would view him as anything other than a shining beacon of light and love and joy and wonder. The knowledge that he’d have to respect Louis’ wishes, that he couldn’t reply or question or fight. And then the last part, the part confusing Harry the most - the notion that he was in any way, shape or form taken.

 

Harry hadn’t been taken for a long time. He’d barely even had more than a cursory peck on the cheek and a few drunken cuddles with Nick for the past three years. Ever since he and Xander had broken up and Harry had moved into his apartment, he’d felt as though there was no point in pursuing a relationship. It had been a messy break up, a painful one that had sunk it’s hooks into Harry, sharp little barbs that caught in his chest whenever he thought about what went wrong. There’d been arguments, big ones, with shouting and screaming and things being thrown. There’d been long nights talking, eyes red with tears and fought off sleep. There’d been those  _ nearly, almost, not quite _ discussions, when they’d convinced themselves to keep trying, when hands slipped under waistbands and lips slipped over tight spaces. And then, finally, there had been the moment that rang out in stark clarity against it all, the static in your ears after an explosion, the sudden absence of everything shining brightly amidst the debris. It was over, there was no going back and Harry had turned and left, not even a trace of goodbye across his lips. 

 

It had been an act of survival, a selfish moment in an otherwise unselfish life, and Harry had spent many hours and many bottles of overpriced red wine with Nick being talked out of begging Xander to take him back. Xander had never been good for him, he could see that now; too controlling, too dismissive, too hard, but at the time, he’d felt like everything, like he’d hung the moon and the stars just for Harry and now Harry would never get to have them back. That feeling lingered for longer than Harry cared to admit, the idea that he wasn’t loveable, that he’d had his chance and he’d blown it, that he should have just settled and taken that one person who had shown him love, even if it hadn’t been everything Harry had dreamed of. Slowly, it had faded away, and now, most of the time, it was nothing more than a nagging half thought, like wondering if you’ve remembered to lock the door when you’re already halfway to your destination. But still, Harry hadn’t quite felt able to pick himself up and try the whole dating scene and so he had thrown himself into his work and his friendships and his kitchen. Louis had been the first moment in quite some time that Harry had been able to even consider the idea that anything romantic could ever bloom in his life again and well, clearly that had gone disastrously wrong.

 

But still, Harry can’t work out where he’s got this idea that he’s taken from. He’s pretty certain he didn’t even mention Xander by name, deciding to spare Louis the sob story for another time, and mostly they’d spoken about their shared passions and interests. He doesn’t even remember giving any of the details for Christmas Day, too caught up in the moment, secretly hopeful that he wouldn’t be able to fly out until late apart from  _ oh shit _ . The first day, when he’d been out of his mind with frustration and concern and he’d told Louis he had someone special to get back home for.

 

There was no lie, no lie at all, because Harry really did have someone special to get home to, but Louis’ understanding really could be no further from the truth and Harry isn’t sure how he’s going to fix it. Still though, he has time. For now, he just needs his bed and some proper sleep. Hopefully in the magic of Christmas will help him find a way through the dark. 

 

~~~~

“Merry Christmas Darling!”

 

Harry lets a huge smile wash over his face as soft, wrinkled hands pull him down for a wet kiss on the cheek.

 

“Merry Christmas to you too Mrs Stein!”

 

“Harry-” the old lady swats at his shoulder, carrying a surprising amount of force for someone so frail looking, “-how many times do I have to tell you to call me Babs. This is what our third Christmas together and you still insist on calling me after that dead old man. He’s been gone long enough now Harry, I don’t need to be continually reminded by young folk like you.”

 

“I’m sorry Barbara, just trying to be polite.”

 

Babs chunters something under her breath that Harry doesn’t quite catch and he smiles to himself. His Christmases have become a lot brighter since he started spending them here, just the two of them. He’d first met Barabara just a couple of days after he’d moved in when he’d heard an almighty crash from the apartment next door during his morning meditation. When there had been no response to him hammering on the door, he’d called 911 and they discovered Babs had had a fall. It turned out, Babs often had falls, and there had been no-one around to help for quite some time; her husband had died the year before Harry moved in and her only son lived in Ohio and was, for all intents and purposes, a bit of a shit. So Harry had started weekly dinners for the two of them, taken time off work to take her to physio appointments, brought Babs as his date to a couple of the fancy gala dinners for work, or at least he had done until her health took a bit of a downwards turn in the fall. She was better now, comparatively speaking, but Harry still worried about leaving her alone when he travelled, always keeping half an eye on his phone incase he got another call from the Emergency Room telling him to come quick. And he would - he would be on a plane in a heartbeat for Barbara, no matter where he was in the world. She is his family here in lonely New York City, and the thought of anything happening to her without him there to help fills his heart with dread. Everyone important in Harry’s life knows that in pretty much every situation, Barbara will come first if she has to. It’s the unspoken rule that if Harry needs to leave in the middle of a meal or if he cancels a night out at the last minute, it will always and only be for Babs.

 

They eat their Christmas meals on lap trays, Barbara propped up in bed in a nest of pillows and Harry on the armchair beside her. He’d helped her change into her favourite Christmas jumper and taken the time to softly run a boar bristle brush through her soft white curls and ran a little rouge across her cheeks before they’d sat down to eat. Babs had been a beauty in her prime, and Harry had seen no end of photos of her and her late husband Frank running wild all over town. Frank had been an investment banker, retiring early in the late 80s and Babs had retired right alongside him after spending her career working in the music industry. He was never sure exactly  _ what _ Barbara’s job had been, but she had endless stories about dinner parties with Mick Jagger and coffee dates with Stevie Nicks that made Harry’s heart swell. The two of them together had really been something and Harry loved to bring a little of that glamour to her life now. 

 

When they'd finished eating, Harry took his time to tidy away the plates leaving Barbara to watch old black and white Christmas movies on the TV. Harry pays for a subscription to a classic movie channel for her, knowing that she loves to watch the films of her youth when she’s in on her own- he’d read somewhere that it was good for people in Barbara’s position to have those little memory joggers, the things that helped them think back fondly through their lives. 

 

There were the physical issues with Barbara, and those Harry wasn't as concerned about but it was the mental side of things that made Harry worry the most. In the past year or so, Harry had noticed that Barbara's memory seemed to be getting worse and that she would often repeat the same old stories over and over again, thinking it was for the first time. Harry knew that the worst thing he could do was  to share those worries with her and so he tried to keep it under wraps, occasionally speaking to Nick when they started to overwhelm him and making sure to check in with her physician every now and again. Today seem to be a good day though and Babs had been in fine spirits all afternoon. Harry feels a little selfish as he let the relief of this wash over him; after everything that had happened with Louis, he doesn't quite have the energy to cope with that too. Not today. 

 

“Babs,” Harry calls through from the kitchen, “Can I... Can I ask you something?”

 

“Harry, since when did you have to ask my permission to ask a question?”

 

“Hah. Never, you're right Barbara. It's about dating though and we've never really spoken about that.”

 

Barbara rubs her hands together gleefully.

 

“Ooooo!  I've been waiting for some of the good stuff. Is it your handsome friend Nicholas?”

 

Harry laughs, a deep hearty chuckle that shakes his whole body.

 

“Oh god Babs, no definitely not Nick!”  Harry takes a moment to compose himself, “It's actually somebody I met when I was over in England.”

 

Barbara's eyes light up at this and she mutes the television.

 

“Tell me everything.”

 

~~~~

 

One hour, four cups of tea and a few tears on both sides later, Harry and Barbara have come up with a plan. It is going to be, without a doubt, one of the most ridiculous things Harry has ever done, and there’s a part of him that knows it runs the risk of backfiring, blowing up in his face and leaving him even more devastated than he’s already been but as Babs had told him, sometimes you have to take a leap for love.

  
Harry isn’t sure if this is love, because really, can you ever be sure after less than three full days together, but he knows that it’s  _ something _ and that’s more than he’s had in a very long time. He knows that when he thinks of Louis, his heart pounds in his chest with a rhythm that feels like dancing. He knows that when he hears Louis’ voice, all he can think of is dust motes dancing in dappled sunlight in a breezy little flat in the North of England that feels more like home than anywhere he’s ever known. He knows that he wants to learn the name of every plant just so he can find one Louis’ has never seen before, that he wants to drink Yorkshire tea and Yorkshire tea only for the rest of his life with milk and no sugar, that the thought of actually waking up not just in the same room, but the same bed as that beautiful guardian angel he’s longing to call his makes his body thrum with a longing and desire and tender hearted hope that Harry had forgotten he could feel.  And so it’s worth the risk, worth the chance, worth the leap of faith. Because if it works (and Harry really isn’t sure that it will), there’s just the glimmer of a possibility that both he and Louis can have a happily ever after after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day because I really want to get this wrapped up on New Year's Day but also... my wrist is playing up so all the apologies if it takes a little longer than planned. It will be finished though. It will. We have a plan after all (Babs made my heart soft). Hope you're all enjoying it so far :)


End file.
